We live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities.
For only those who have slipped and fallen know the vicissitudes of the way.
They either slay the man, or themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.
It is personalities, not principles, that move the age.
Perhaps one never seems so much at one's ease as when one has to play a part.